


Oh What A Night

by achievewriting



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Fluff, Wedding Fluff, wedding crashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 23:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14248209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achievewriting/pseuds/achievewriting
Summary: As you pass under the massive double doors and enter the reception, arm in arm and both unwavering in your confidence, you decide your favourite thing about a wedding is that neither you nor Trevor have any idea who the fuck anyone in this place is.





	Oh What A Night

**Author's Note:**

> [a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1263129610/playlist/1PCf8GnkVwpzzPiOKIpuoE?si=VBpfAamvQb66ySvE2UB0Qg)

You love weddings.

The families reunited, the laughter, the bride and groom and guests alike full of love and joy and something more, a kind of togetherness that you could never put your finger on. The dresses, the cake, the dancing, the flowers and lights and garlands. Every time, you marvel at it all.

Trevor always agrees, but you know his favourite part is the free food and open bar.

That seems particularly true tonight - he’s practically vibrating where he stands as you straighten his tie in the hall outside the reception. “Are they done yet? God, I’m starving.”

You glance up at him and raise an eyebrow. “Should’ve eaten before we got here, then.”

He frowns and scrunches his nose a little, “But the hors d'oeuvres are so much better when you’re hungry.”

You laugh, “We’re a bit late for the hors d'oeuvres with this one, babe.” It’s a fine line, the timing of your entrance. Always when the dancefloor is full, never before the buffet is whisked away. You finish fixing the knot of Trevor’s tie and turn him to face the gilded mirror behind him. “There,” you give his ass a firm pat, “A sight for sore eyes.”

He smirks as he brings you to his side, his arm wrapping around to rest on your hip. He nods his chin at your reflection, “And look at you.”

You do, and you smile. Another thing you love about weddings: getting dressed up. You put real effort and consideration into your makeup, and it’s not often you have an excuse to wear this dress. It’s floaty and fitting, and falls off your hips just the way you like. Just the way Trevor likes, too, because he’s brought his other hand to rest on your hip and he’s watching you with hooded eyes as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“You look perfect,” he hums, swaying you both slightly, “Beautiful.”

You melt a bit at his sweet words, but you’re jolted from the moment when he returns your deed and gives your ass a good smack. You both laugh at the reflection of your shocked face. “That, I believe, is the end of the first dance.” He takes your arm and leads you down the hallway.

Listening, you find indeed that Extreme’s  _More Than Words_  has given way to the cheering and whooping of wedding guests, and a faster, dancier song.

Now’s the time.

As you pass under the massive double doors and enter the reception, arm in arm and both unwavering in your confidence, you decide your favourite thing about a wedding is that neither you nor Trevor have any idea who the fuck anyone in this place is.

* * *

The first time was an accident.

You were a bridesmaid at a friend’s intimate wedding, and Trevor, your plus one. The afternoon ceremony had been short, in the rustic garden of a venue run exclusively for weddings. The reception was a lunch set to Pinterest-boho perfection, before the bride and groom left for photos, and the party disbanded. Out of town and out of ideas for things to do before the nightly celebrations, you and Trevor decided to explore the grounds.

Inside was another, much larger, reception in full swing. You’d both stopped to watch the dancing from the door when a guest stumbled past you, hanging off the arm of her date. She’d laid a hand on your shoulder and leaned in, “Well don’t just stand there, come’n dance.” As she sauntered into the hall, already leading her partner into a Whitney Houston number, Trevor looked at you and you looked at Trevor. A moment of do-we-don’t-we, then a unanimous shrug, and you followed the unknowing party-goers in. Whether she’d mistaken you for guests or they just didn’t care, you’d never know, but you had fun, got drunk for free, and left with no obligatory awkward goodbyes. In the two years since then, the two of you had made a nice little practice of crashing weddings. It was a little (rather, extremely) unconventional, but it became your favourite thing to do for date nights, and as you picked events further and further out of town, it became your favourite kind of weekend away. An excuse to get fancy, as Trevor likes to say.

Three things are key. First, people have to be drunk. You’d only been caught once - you’d arrived too early and it wasn’t long before you were pointed out to security by people only on their first glass of wine. You’d found people who were on their third or fourth much more careless, and people who were too chopped to tell you apart from their own relatives were even better.

Second, blending in. You’d joined a forum for Texas brides to discuss their wedding plans, which made getting PDFs of invitations easy. The perfect font for “We request the presence of…” was a thing that people agonised over, apparently. If the invitation didn’t have the information you needed, Trevor would ring the venue and put on a spiel about how “we need the right gift wrap, what’s the colour scheme,” or “we need to arrange a babysitter for our kid, what time’s the dinner,” and you’d be set. The right colour dress and suit, and the perfect timing of people leaving their tables to dance, and you could walk right in.

Lastly, confidence. No one bats an eye if you act like you belong there.

So when the photographer approaches you and Trevor where you sit chatting and people watching over empty plates, you’re all smiles.

“Don’t you two look stunning!” She raises her camera in question, “Can I grab a photo?”

Trevor immediately pulls you to his side. “Absolutely!” You know he loves this - he’d laughed before at the idea of the newlyweds going through their photos of the day and going “who the hell are those people.” As the photographer’s shutter snaps away, you both cycle through your usual photo routine: nice smiles, a kiss to your check, stupid facial expressions.

The photographer laughs, leaning in to show your photos. “Beautiful.”

Trevor’s arm around your waist gives a squeeze as he watches the images flit across the little screen. “You’re telling me,” he breathes.

You blush, but you’re focused on the camera as the woman goes back and forth between the last of your photos - you’ll never get to see them again, after all. There’s one you particularly love, you’re looking up at Trevor as he grins for the camera. He’s stunning, as usual, and you can practically see the hearts in your eyes. You ask to see it again before she’s off to the small gathering of people at the next table over. You turn back to Trevor, placing your hand on his knee as you eye the line for the bar. “You drunk enough?” You have to lean right in to be heard over the music, most of the tables around you are empty as people b-line for the dance floor.

“Hell no.” He takes your hand as he stands and leads you through around the edges of the dance floor, dodging empty chairs and flailing limbs.

You’re nearly there when you feel someone grab your other hand. You’re snatched from Trevor’s grasp and spun into the crowd. You look to your left to see the bridesmaid still holding your hand, and nearly turn and run when you see the bride herself across the dance circle from you, her dress gathered in her hands, stomping her feet to  _500 Miles_. But other women are being pulled in, and no one’s staring at you, so you start stomping your own feet, yelling along to every drunk person’s favorite song.

It’s elating. You’re breathless and giddy and completely carefree. You have your own friends that you party with, but there’s just something about being here, in middle of these strangers with their happiness and their sloppy dancing, that gets you just a little bit higher. For a moment, you love these strangers wholeheartedly.

The song ends too soon, and you slip away to find Trevor before the next one. He’s right where you left him, holding two drinks and clearly repressing a laugh. You give him a look as you take your Jack and coke from him. “Look, okay, that song has to be at the top of your lungs. Otherwise you’re just halfassing it.”

He gives an appeasing shrug, “I didn’t say a thing.”

You laugh into your glass, “You were thinking it.”

Trevor steps closer, pressing his lips to your ear. “Actually, I was thinking I can’t wait to take you back to the hotel and make you this breathless and sweaty again.”

Your stomach flip-flops. Eyebrows raised, you lean back to take in his lopsided smile and dark eyes. “Okay, alright,” you raise your free hand in surrender. “First, though, we’re dancing. Come on kid, bottoms up.” You throw back the rest of your drink as you watch Trevor skull his.

You set your glasses on the nearest table before taking both his hands and pulling him backwards into the crowd. He’s quick to capture your waist with his hands and your lips with his own as he pushes you both to the middle of the dance floor. He tastes like hot wings and whiskey. You forget why you’re there for moment, standing amongst people moving to Jason Mraz, until he breaks away to kiss your forehead instead. Then he’s taking your hand, wrapping an arm around your waist, and leading you through song after song after song.

At some point, you lose your heels, Trevor loses his jacket, and you both find another drink. Wedding soundtracks are predictable, but you love it. Trevor’s a good dancer by nature, and after half a dozen weddings, you’re not too bad either. The drinks help, of course. You’re a bit more than buzzed, and you can see in the slope of his smile and his brazen jokes that Trevor is on your level. You take particular joy in watching him dance to  _Drop It Like It's Hot_ , slut drops and all. He earns a few laughs from people around you, but you’re too tipsy to worry about the attention. As the next song starts, he returns to your arms, bright red and panting.

“Good workout?” You tease.

“It’s hard work being a bad bitch, Y/N.” He huffs and runs a hand through his hair. A lost cause, it flops straight back into his face.

You reach up and brush the strand away yourself, before bringing his face to yours. It’s a slow waltz that plays, and as you kiss him, Trevor takes your hand and waist once more as he sways you both in time. You rest your head on his chest and find yourself transfixed by your hand held lightly in his, delicate, his thumb clasped in your fist, your fist enveloped by his slender fingers.

When you feel him press a kiss to your hairline, you look up to find him watching you. There’s a tightness to his smile, like it’s holding back a thought said aloud. You rub the small of his back with a knowing smile. “What?”

His laugh is breathy and nervous. He squeezes your hand as he leans down to bury his face in your hair. Still swaying, Trevor places a kiss to your neck before he whispers, “Marry me?”

You stop. Your heart, your feet, time, everything. No one else is in the room when you pull back, searching his face for sincerity. You find nothing but. “Are you serious?” you choke. You don’t dear hope - you’re both drunk, at a wedding.

He nods, eyes shining.

“Like, really, really serious?” Your heart pounds, doubts fading as he nods again.

“I, uh, I don’t have a ring, but we can go find one tomorrow, if-”

“Yes.” You place your hands on the back of his neck and bring his face to yours, “Yes, yes, yes, god yes.” You punctuate each word with a kiss, and stupidly, you feel yourself crying.

When Trevor cups your face to kiss you properly, his cheeks are wet, too. You feel the desperation in the way his mouth moves with yours, but you’re grinning, and then so is he, and kissing becomes difficult. His thumb wipes at the tears on your face, “I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you, too, Trev.”

“You wanna get out of here?”

You nod furiously, kissing him once more before stepping away. The rest of the room comes rushing back. You see several people glance away quickly, and your checks burn.

You’re a bit dazed as Trevor leads you back to the sidelines, handing you your discarded shoes and throwing his jacket over his shoulder. You avoid the curious gazes as you weave through guests to the exit, save for the glance you spare over your shoulder at the dwindling crowd. Then you’re in the light of the lobby, and then the mild summer night air. As the doors close behind you, you hear a shout. There’s a taxi waiting, and as Trevor helps you in, a man you recognize as the father of the groom bursts through the exit, yelling all kinds of profanities. You shuffle over quickly, and before he climbs in next to you, Trevor gives the man a big wave. When he’s in, you urge the driver to step on it.

The taxi is barely out the gate before Trevor practically pulls you into his lap and claims your mouth with a hunger that takes your breath away. His hands roam as he presses kisses to your throat, your collarbone, and the words “I need you, babygirl,” to your ear.

You shiver in anticipation, not just of the hotel bedroom, but of things to come, too. Of finally attending a wedding impossible for you to crash: your own.


End file.
